


the business of wretches

by xahra99



Series: Odyssey [8]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 13:16:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14189754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xahra99/pseuds/xahra99
Summary: 1726. Many years after the events of Black Sails, Woodes Rogers meets his fate in London.Post series. Complete.





	the business of wretches

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so here it is, the fic series nobody asked for for a programme that finished last year because I like to watch entire series on Amazon rather than waiting for each episode to come out. Part eight of eight Black Sails character studies/missing scenes.   
> I did enjoy Woodes Rogers, though he's not my favourite character (that honour goes jointly to Jack Rackham and Charles Vane): once he went villain he went full villain.   
> Historically, Woodes Rogers was imprisoned for debt on his return to England and spent years trying without success to clear his name. Eventually he was granted a pension and reappointed as governor (though these events did not come at the same time) and died in the Bahamas in 1732. Other things I learned writing this fic: eighteenth century taverns did not have either bars or pint glasses (common objects in modern English pubs). If you're in Bristol, England, check out the Llandoger Trow down near the waterfront which dates from 1664 and on which the interior of my fictional tavern was based.   
> This fic has no warnings.   
> The title quotes are from the Odyssey, from both Emily Wilson's and the Penguin translation (in this case both) because I'm a massive geek.

“The business of wretches is wretched even in guarantee giving.”-The Odyssey.

 

The demise of Woodes Rogers, post-series.

 

Woodes Rogers: “All you know about me is what I want you to know.”

 

_London, 1726_

 

“You must make an exception,” Woodes Rogers hears-and hates-the pleading in his voice. “I’ve been a customer for years.”

The _Swan_ ’s landlord shakes his head. “No credit, sir. We have been caught that way before.  I will need full payment.”

Woodes Rogers slides back frayed cuffs and delves into his purse, determined to find enough money for a drink. His reputation and his debts have barred him from all the private clubs. There are cheaper taverns, but Rogers still has his pride and stubbornly refuses to drink at anything less than a gentleman’s establishment. “How much?”

“Sixpence, sir,” the landlord says. He folds his arms, denying Rogers access to the barrels stacked behind him. 

Woodes Rogers grimaces. He has tossed sixpence to beggars many times in his life without a second thought. Now this small sum is all that stands between him and a pint of good ale.  He finds a penny wedged in the seams of his purse and slides the coin across the table before searching his coat pockets.

The landlord becomes tired of waiting for Rogers and goes off to fill someone else’s bottle. Woodes Rogers watches the beer foam from the barrel and licks his lips. His desperation disgusts him. He knows he has two choices left to him. He can scrape together coins for liquor and drown his contempt for the life he must now lead. Or he can return home to his empty room and sit alone with his debts and his memories, drowning in loss.  

Drink, Rogers decides, is a vastly preferable option. He pats down his waistcoat pockets and finds two more coins.  He is still threepence short, but it’s a start.

He looks around at the other customers to gauge their temperaments and charity, but their figures are barely visible in the gloom. The _Swan_ ’s low ceilings and small windows cast the tavern into a perpetual murk. The dark walls are stained with beer and tobacco, and the few flickering candles do nothing to light the gloomy darkness.

He is debating with himself whether to persuade the landlord to pour him half a glass when a man rises from his seat in one corner and approaches Woodes Rogers with a seaman’s wide gait. “Is this seat empty?” he asks, indicating the seat next to Rogers.

Woodes Rogers nods. The stranger hooks the chair back with one foot and settles down. He is dressed like a sailor in stocking cap and buckled boots. The sleeves of his jacket are rolled back to display tattooed arms. He raises his hand and calls for the landlord. “A drink for us both!”

His voice fills the close confines of the tavern. It’s a voice made for open seas and wide spaces. Woodes Rogers wonders what its owner is doing in Whitechapel. 

The landlord brings a bottle and two glasses. The stranger hands over coins and pours for them both. Woodes Roger takes his glass but does not drink it. He has learned to distrust good fortune where he finds it.

“What do you want?” he asks suspiciously.

The stranger takes a deep draught and smacks his lips with appreciation. He sets the glass down, pulls out a long pipe, and uses his thumb to pack the bowl of the pipe with tobacco. “A moment of your time.”

Woodes Rogers frowns “Your business, sir?”

The stranger sets down his pipe and reaches into his coat. Woodes Rogers tenses, old reflexes dying hard, but he relaxes a little when the sailor pulls out a book. He holds out the volume, so Rogers can read its title. The book is well used, and the gilt letters have faded but Rogers can just make out the title; _A Cruising Voyage Round the World,_ and the author, Woodes Rogers.

A wry smile lines the stranger’s face. “Woodes Rogers, I presume?” 

Rogers feels churlish. “Your pardon sir. I thought you were a creditor.”

The stranger shrugs as if Woodes Rogers’ debts mean nothing. “What well-meaning gentleman does not have debts these days?” he says, taking up his pipe. He lights the pipe from the brazier on the table and drinks in the smoke. “May I trouble you for a moment of your time?”

“I have nothing else these days,” confesses Rogers.

“Then that’s good fortune for us both,” says the sailor cheerfully. “I have carried your book for many a year, but never thought to meet the author. I heard I might find you here when I was next in London.”

“You’re lucky to find me,” Woodes Rogers says cautiously. He does not wish to give the impression that he spends all his time in the tavern. A man of his rank should frequent drawing rooms and coffee houses, not wasting his evenings with common mariners in a middling sort of tavern in Whitechapel. 

The sailor blows a smoke ring, “I only wish to hear more of your tales. Perhaps you’ll sign my book. Was it true your ship found Crusoe?”

Woodes Rogers allows himself to taste the beer and finds it a most wholesome liquor. “Selkirk, you mean?”

The stranger nods eagerly. “Yes.”

“A somewhat less romantic man than Defoe’s tale,” Rogers says. “He had forgot his words for want of use, and we could scarcely understand him.”

“Yes, but such a story!” says the sailor enthusiastically. “Your expedition was, I do believe, the first to circumnavigate the globe and return with his original ships and most of your crew.”

“That’s true,” Woodes Rogers admits.

The sailor leans back in his seat and exhales a thin stream of smoke.  “Tell me of your voyage.”

Woodes Rogers complies. He allows himself to be drawn out and quite enjoys the process. They finish off their flagon. The stranger calls for more. He is an avid listener, taking in each detail of Rogers’ journeys with open enthusiasm. The tavern fills and then empties as the evening draws on and the candles burn low. It has been a long while since Rogers enjoyed any evening quite this much, and he makes a point of telling the stranger so.

The sailor smiles. “Tales such as yours are meat and drink to me,” he says. “But I must confess I most enjoyed your stories of the Caribbean Sea, and how you fought the pirates there.” He raises his glass in a toast. “I have always longed to travel to the Indies.”

“A heinous place,” says Rogers. The beer turns sour upon his tongue and his mood takes a turn for the worse. He does not return the toast. “I would not recommend it to any man.”

“Why so, sir?” The strange sailor frowns. “You drove the pirates out of Nassau.”

Woodes Rogers has heard the news from Nassau. The pirates have become respectable, but they are still pirates. A bitter triumph, and yet so fleeting. He smells gunpowder and hears the snap of flags against the mast. Eleanor’s soft voice; _my love, come to bed_. “The cost was too high; do you hear me. Too high.”

“But, your success-”

Woodes Rogers stares down at his beer. The liquid gleams like dark water. Like blood. “They have all forgotten.” he says bitterly. “All of them. I reclaimed Nassau for the Crown. Now men who know nothing of the Caribbean judge me. They were not there. They do not know what it was like. I had it for a moment in my hand.” He holds up one palm to illustrate it. “And then-and then it slipped away. Like sand.”

The sailor stares at him. His stocking cap has fallen back. His face is nondescript, a good old-fashioned English face, though burned a little by the sun. There is no way he can know of the events in Nassau. Of the price Woodes Rogers paid. He has never written of the true cost of his failure. Of Eleanor. Of Flint. Of his son. Now the man must think him mad, and Woodes Rogers has no wish to go to Bedlam. He has sunk far enough.

“Apologies, sir,” he says briskly, hoping to salvage the situation. He gropes for the sailor’s book. His book. Soft leather flexes beneath his fingers as he turns to the first page and calls to the landlord. “Bring me a pen, sir.”

The landlord fetches quill and inkwell. Woodes Rogers scribes his name on the flyleaf. He writes a dedication, then pauses. “I am sorry, good sir. I do not know your name.”

The stranger knocks out his pipe. “That’s not important.”

He takes the book from Woodes Rogers and tears out the front page. Flecks of paper scatter across the scuffed floorboards. The sailor places the flyleaf face down so that Woodes Rogers’ autograph faces the table. The he picks up the inkwell and tilts it, drawing a rough circle on the paper. He dips his index finger into the circle and scrubs the paper roughly to form a black spot. Then he turns the paper over to display Woodes Rogers’ own name and pushes the paper into Rogers’ slack hands.

“Here you go,” he says. “The black spot, sir. Do you know what this is?”

 “An old wives tale.” Rogers says contemptuously. “Pirate lore.”

“It’s a reminder.”

“What for?”

“You said we had forgotten.” The sailor slides from his chair, leaving his book on the table. “We have not. Nassau remembers, sir.”

Woodes Rogers feels a cold hand clutch his heart. He flinches, violently.

_They’re all dead_ , he thinks half-heartedly. _Teach is dead. Vane is dead. Flint is dead. Eleanor-_

_Eleanor is dead._

He tells himself he has nothing to fear. But he has a great deal to regret.

“Who are you?” he asks.

The man grimaces. “Just call me a pirate of Nassau.”

He turns and walks out of the tavern. Within seconds he has disappeared into the evening crowds that bustle in the street. Rogers clutches the black spot in his hand and watches him go.

It takes him a while to gather the courage to return to his house. His servant meets him at the door. Woodes Rogers cannot afford a servant, but a valet is the one thing no gentleman should be without, and Woodes Rogers, for all his debts, is still a gentleman. “Good news sir!”

Rogers blinks. “Yes, Wilmot?”

“Your prayers are answered, sir!” Wilmot helps Rogers off with his coat.

Woodes Rogers frowns. “How so?

“We had a messenger today. The Crown has heard your appeal!”

“What news?” Roger’s belly churns with anticipation.

“The King has granted you a pension, sir.” Wilmot takes the book and lays it on the hall table. “Ten thousand pounds!”

The amount is beyond all Woodes Rogers’ wildest dreams-enough to clear the debts remaining from his disastrous Bahamas voyage. “That much?”

“And that’s not all. Let me be the first to congratulate you, sir. You have a new post. You have been reappointed Governor of the Bahamas!”

The paper crumples in Woodes Rogers’ fist. He closes his eyes. He has no wish to return to that place, to its pirates and its memories and its graves. “I cannot possibly accept.”

Wilmot frowns. “How so? You cannot very well decline it after so long spent agitating. I know you well enough to know that you could never pass this up.”

 “You are right,” Woodes Rogers says quietly. The black spot burns in his hand. “How very right you are.”

Wilmot gestures to the paper. “What’s this, sir? Had you warning of my message?”

Woodes Rogers shakes his head. “Nothing,” he said. He knows the paper is a verdict, a judgement, a promise. He will die if he returns to Nassau. And yet, he has no choice. “It’s nothing.”

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Why not check out some of my other finely-crafted fics?


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